


Shameless

by tepidspongebath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Club AU, Dancing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, TW: mention of drug use, improper use of olive oil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have a name?" he asked, tilting his head up and putting his lips close to Sherlock's ear (he was shorter by a little). He wasn't dancing yet, not really, just following the younger man's lead.</p><p>"Sherlock." It was a mundane question, uncreative in the asking, but he decided it didn't matter. Nor did bandying his name about. Usually, on nights like this he used someone else's name, easier for other people to get, but he figured what the hell.</p><p>"Sorry?"</p><p>"<i>Sherlock</i>." </p><p>"Oh. Hi. I'm John." At least that's what Sherlock thought he said. It was a common enough name. Unless he'd actually said <i>Sean</i>. Not that it counted.</p><p>"Well, John," he said, "I don't like this song much."</p><p>"Oh. Er, would you like to stop?"</p><p>"No. I want you to <i>make</i> me like it." Sherlock put a hand on John's back, pulled himself up close - very close - to the other man to shout in his ear. Or at the side of his head anyway. For a while, when nothing happened, Sherlock wondered if he'd been heard at all, or if maybe it was just time to find himself someone new to dance with. </p><p>And then John began to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=117259415) on the kink meme asking for a high-as-a-kite Sherlock and a very interested John to meet in a club, dance for hours, and then go on to John's home where they break in any and all available surfaces. Sherlock is decidedly less comfortable about this the morning after and leaves before dawn: he doesn't like feelings, they're messy and probably drug-induced anyway, and it might be better if he didn't phone the doctor at all afterwards. John Watson has very different views on the matter.

Sherlock Holmes was having a good time. He'd decided that when he tottered out of the restroom a good few minutes ago, just a little while before he'd actually stepped on to the dance floor. True, he was pretty much high as a kite, and he knew it, and he knew  _exactly_  what that innocuous white powder he'd snorted was doing to his body (right down to the cellular receptors, oh yes), but that was all part of it.  
  
He didn't even mind that the first girl he'd danced with had moved in fitful jerks more than anything else, or that her place had been taken by a guy who was a little too free with his hands. He'd laughed when his third partner tried to kiss him and missed, when his fourth pressed up against him, clearly thinking that her ample bosom and low neckline would do the work for her. And he had truly liked it when one of the men - this was some time after he'd stopped counting - had pushed his erection against his own, considerably less responsive groin.   
  
It was good,  _blissful_  even, to not have to think for once, to put his mind on hold like he never could when he was sober. And - though he would never admit it out loud - it was nice to be liked, even anonymously, even for as brainless a reason as the twitch of his hips to the music.  _Nice_.  
  
His current dance partner - a blonde barely out of his teens - dipped his head to plant a kiss on Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock took the opportunity to wink at the man who'd been staring at him since he came into the club with a bunch of friends. He laughed at the way the man - older, but just by a little - swallowed nervously and pretended to look away. The kid - no, not out of his teens, used a fake ID to get in, no, no, no, stop, brain,  _stop_  - took it to mean that he was doing something right, and redoubled his efforts, using his teeth to mark Sherlock just below his left ear.   
  
He didn't like that much, and he wanted him to stop, and he'd stop if he had something else to do with his mouth, so Sherlock maneuvered so that he could catch the boy's lips with his own, and kissed him. It was a pretty thorough kiss, and his arse was groped pretty thoroughly as well while it was happening. Sherlock opened his eyes for a bit - it was a thorough kiss, but not a very good one - and grinned when he saw that the man was still staring from his table. And quite unabashedly, too.   
  
"I'm going to get a drink," said the boy breathlessly when they pulled apart, barely audible over the driving bass of the music. "Be here when I come back?"  
  
"Maybe." Sherlock's answer was noncommittal, and if the kid hadn't heard it, he couldn't have missed the dismissive shrug of the shoulders or how Sherlock moved quite pointedly  _away_  from him.  
  
He wasn't with anyone in particular - just moving with the crowd, with the beat, enjoying the  _fuck_  out of the evening - when the man who'd been staring finally came up to him.   
  
"Hi," he said, maybe a little more timidly than Sherlock strictly found attractive. "Want to dance?"  
  
"I am dancing." To prove his point, Sherlock swung his hips from side to side.  
  
"Um, with me, I mean."  
  
"Well, come on then." Sherlock slid back a bit, inviting him into his space. From the way the bloke had been looking at him, he expected him to grab, or at least to touch, and he wouldn't have minded. But he kept his hands to himself -  _Jesus!_  - and it was Sherlock who put his arms around the man's neck, wrists crossed at his nape, pulling him closer in the crush of the dance floor.


	2. Chapter 2

A crowded dance floor was really no place for conversation - it was one of the beauties of it, actually, you didn't find out how insufferably stupid the people dancing with you were until afterward - but the man tried anyway.  
  
"You have a name?" he asked, tilting his head up and putting his lips close to Sherlock's ear (he was shorter by a little). He wasn't dancing yet, not really, just following the younger man's lead.  
  
"Sherlock." It was a mundane question, uncreative in the asking, but he decided it didn't matter. Nor did bandying his name about. Usually, on nights like this he used someone else's name, easier for other people to get, but he figured what the hell.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
" _Sherlock_."   
  
"Oh. Hi. I'm John." At least that's what Sherlock thought he said. It was a common enough name. Unless he'd actually said  _Sean_. Not that it counted.  
  
"Well, John," he said, "I don't like this song much."  
  
"Oh. Er, would you like to stop?"  
  
"No. I want you to  _make_  me like it." Sherlock put a hand on John's back, pulled himself up close -  _very_  close - to the other man to shout in his ear. Or at the side of his head anyway. For a while, when nothing happened, Sherlock wondered if he'd been heard at all, or if maybe it was just time to find himself someone new to dance with.   
  
And then John began to  _move_.  
  
He wasn't a particularly skillful dancer (Sherlock had danced with better), he wasn't particularly good-looking (Sherlock had danced with prettier, this bloke was pretty average), but he moved like…like an animal, a wild thing, a strong wild thing that could have you between its teeth in the blink of an eye, forceful and decisive and deliciously, incredibly dangerous (Sherlock was having trouble with metaphors).   
  
Sherlock laughed delightedly, a hand going to John's shoulder so that his forearm rested along John's well-formed bicep as they moved further into the press of people on the floor. This was unexpected. This was good. Very good. Brilliant. He didn't habitually dance, this bloke, but he was no stranger to physical activity (possibly rugby, going by his build).   
  
"Liking it now?" John shouted over the din of the club, grabbing (finally!) Sherlock's waist, making the younger man move as he directed.  
  
Sherlock bent his head to answer, his damp forehead touching John's, and he shaped his words maddeningly close to the other man's lips."God, yes."   
  
He smiled when John had to pause at that, lick his lips in an instinctive invitation to a kiss. "You little tease," he said breathily.  
  
Sherlock only smiled wider as he confirmed the appellation by swiveling lower and lower to the rhythm of the music, letting John's hands travel up his sides and arms while his own long fingers trailed  _down_ the front of John's shirt, until he was nearly on his haunches, his mouth almost even with the other man's crotch. He stayed down there long enough to blink up at John before sliding upwards, fluidly unfolding while keeping as much contact as possible with John's front. "You have no idea."   
  
"Do you do more than tease?" John's shoulders moved delectably under his shirt as his arms went around Sherlock.   
  
"Maybe." John was still being polite despite everything, his touch going no lower than Sherlock's waist, but the younger man had no similar compunctions. He put both hands on John's shapely rump and squeezed.  
  
"What if I make you?"  
  
There was a promise there, and not necessarily a good one. He knew that from experience. Common sense said that Sherlock should stop before things got out of hand, go home, sober up, quit snorting things in lavatory stalls and get his life in order, but he decided that common sense could go fuck itself since it was too prudish to go and find someone else to bugger. He squeezed John's arse again, closed the tiny gap between them so that they were dancing groin to groin. "Try! By all means, try!"


	3. Chapter 3

There was a substantial amount of trying on both their parts. Sherlock surprised John by dancing backward a few steps, grinding his arse against the front of John's trousers until John begged him to stop, and John made Sherlock gasp when he ran his hand down the front of the younger man's dress shirt, found his nipple, and pinched. And those were just a couple of bits that glaringly stood out in Sherlock's frankly addled mind.  
  
Sherlock had lost track of how long they'd been dancing (the people on the floor had changed quite a bit, but that was no way to tell time). He certainly couldn't tell when exactly he first noticed John's erection, or even when the front of his own jeans had started to become uncomfortably tight. Normally that would alarm him - Sherlock Holmes, so sotted on drugs and hormones that he couldn't  _notice things_  - but something like this was exactly what he'd come to the club for. It was all flashing lights (even when he closed his eyes) and pounding music, and that was it, blissfully nothing more than that, and that was good. That John was shaping up to be his prospective fuck for the night was really just a lovely bonus.  
  
They were hardly dancing anymore, actually. It was just an ungraceful push and thrust of crotch against crotch now, desperate and needful, as much as could be managed to tease at sating arousal without either being sent over the edge (and it was only a matter of time, wasn't it?). That they were moving to any sort of beat was pure accident. Sweat was making the curls stick to Sherlock's forehead, and he panted, open-mouthed, as a fiddly twist of John's hips sent an achingly wonderful jolt up his spine. They hadn't kissed yet, and maybe it was a good thing that they hadn't, because kissing just might be too much, if they kissed, Sherlock just might unzip his trousers and jerk himself off then and there, it was so good and they hadn't even left the floor yet, no-one, no-one had ever danced with him like this…  
  
And then John caught his mouth with his own, and kissed him, long and hard and deep.   
  
The world spun (possibly the drug, but hell, it was amazing), and when it was over, Sherlock was surprised (and disappointed) to find that they were still vertical. Neither of them were moving, though they were still touching, one of Sherlock's hands caught in John's grip. He let out a breath, more like a needy sigh than anything else.  
  
"Let's get out of here," John said, threading his fingers through Sherlock's.  
  
"Your friends won't mind?" Sherlock had almost forgotten about them, but he had been aware of people watching John with mixed expressions, the people he'd come to the club with.  
  
"It's not my party, and it's not my wedding." John kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "And it's not even tomorrow, so I'm good."  
  
"Mmm." Sherlock smiled slowly. "Okay. Let's."  
  
Given the state of the two of them, Sherlock expected that they were going to go for a quick fuck in the restrooms, and he said as much when John led them out of the club, pausing only long enough to get their coats.   
  
"Oh God," said John, as they stood on the curb waiting for a cab. "Don't tempt me.  _Don't_."  
  
"Or there's a quiet alley out back if you don't fancy the loo. Ha, crowded in there anyway. Always is by now. Nobody'll see us outside, and there's a nice wall, and space enough for me to get on my knees --" His hand plucked playfully at the buckle of the other man's belt.  
  
" _No_." John grabbed his wrist, and tried to hail a somewhat distant taxi with his free hand. "Please. I want you properly. I want you naked." He bit back an obscene noise as Sherlock pressed his pinioned hand against his groin.   
  
"Sentiment." Sherlock grinned. He didn't want the poetical nonsense that naturally followed drivel like that, and he was pleased with his method for stopping it. John looked like he might have given in to a blow job in the alley if the taxi hadn't pulled up in front of them. "All right. You win. Proper sex in a proper bed. I hope you live near here."


	4. Chapter 4

John gave the driver an address that wasn't quite as close as Sherlock would have liked, but he supposed it was close enough. His own flat was farther away, and he didn't want to spend money on a hotel. He didn't  _have_  money to spend on a hotel, he'd blown it all at the club.  
  
The taxi's air conditioning was uncomfortably cold, practically freezing after the heat of the club, and he and John were sitting with a little space between them, wearing their seatbelts and everything, being civilized. Too civilized for Sherlock's taste, and his shivering wasn't just due to the cold. He reached out, ran a hand down John's thigh to his knee, then a ways up again. "A bachelor party?" he asked.   
  
"Mhm. Ted's getting married on Saturday. The other rugby lads wanted to take him to a strip club, but he took one look at the place, and said he'd rather go dancing someplace else. Got his values, has Ted."  
  
"So I was right about the rugby."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind." Sherlock squeezed John's thigh. "You're sure your mates won't mind?"  
  
"Nah. They've known which way I swung since uni."  
  
"Mmm." Sherlock took his seatbelt off, sidled closer to John, kissed him softly (maintaining a modicum of restraint), and settled himself so that his head was in John's lap. He could feel the movement of the cab more keenly lying across the seat like that, and other things too. "Why me?"  
  
"You're a vain one, aren't you?" John stroked Sherlock's hair, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp curls. "You're bloody gorgeous, that's why. I hope you don't want more than that, there's not much else to go on in a club."  
  
"What took you so long? You took your time watching."  
  
John laughed. "Was I that obvious?"  
  
"To me, you were."  
  
"I wasn't sure who you liked, was I? I came in, you were dancing with a girl, and I figured I'd just watch. Then there was another girl, and a lad after that, and I thought, well, look at that, but then you started dancing with  _another_  girl. But then there was a string of blokes…" John's words trailed off, and he made a soft sound at the back of his throat as Sherlock turned his head, burying his nose in John's crotch.  
  
"Go on," said Sherlock, his voice slightly muffled.  
  
"You're making it hard."   
  
"Well, yes. It already is. Go on."  
  
" _Ngh_." John swallowed loudly. Sherlock grinned at how the grip on his hair tightened, not unpleasantly, as he mouthed the bulge in the other man's trousers. "And then that kid. The one who looked barely legal. He kissed you. And I thought why not me? And, well, you winked. I thought I had a shot."  
  
"You certainly did."   
  
John gave a little, soft sigh. "Come up here." And he put his mouth against Sherlock's while the younger man was still trying to maneuver himself upright, his lips parted, and Sherlock had a hard job of unbuckling John's seatbelt while his lower lip was being sucked on quite deliciously.  
  
He pulled John down, and it became a delirious mess of a kiss as they became steadily more horizontal, with John bent beneath Sherlock. Their teeth clashed and they went slip-sliding when the cab turned a corner, dislodging Sherlock, or at least his mouth from the other man's. John swore quietly (but very viciously): his head had hit the taxi's door, and Sherlock had landed rather heavily on his chest.  
  
Panting, Sherlock lifted himself up a little, snaked an arm southwards between the two of them, though he couldn't have said if he meant to free his own cock or John's. He was saved from having to make the decision by the cabbie rapping on the plastic barrier to get their attention.  
  
"Excuse me.  _Excuse me_. Look, I'm happy for the two of you, good for you young people, I always say, but would you mind keeping it in your pants till you get home? Or wherever it is you're going," he added. "Only someone's already been sick all over the seat back there, and I spent my lunch break cleaning that up, and I really don't want to do any more cleaning tonight, 'kay?"  
  
For a few seconds, they seemed unable to do anything. Then John began to giggle (there was no other word for it, and it wasn't as bad as it sounded - it wasn't giggling like a juvenile schoolgirl, not at all), sitting up and trying to push a resistant Sherlock upright.   
  
"Thank you," said the cabbie feelingly.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock never knew how they  _did_  manage to keep it in their pants for the rest of the cab ride. He spent it leaning heavily, suggestively against John, draping himself about the other man. John kept swatting at the hand Sherlock had drifting down to the zipper of his trousers until he caught it, held it, and, murmuring things about patience, brought it to his lips.  
  
"Fuck patience." Sherlock meant to snarl, but it turned into another noise entirely when the tip of John's tongue grazed his knuckles (for once he'd left off those gloves of his, and he was glad of it). The man had a clever mouth.   
  
"Not exactly what I had in mind," said John, turning his head to look out of the window. "And here we are."  
  
The cab had stopped in front of a row of low-rent flats, and Sherlock slid out, pitched forward a few steps on the pavement before he managed to steady himself. He watched John count out the fare and a modest tip (careful with his money even with the prospect of good sex, would have asked for his change if they hadn't almost made a mess in the backseat, was ready to splurge tonight anyway) before tumbling out of the cab himself. He caught Sherlock by the arm, led him to a unit two doors down from where the cab had pulled over.  
  
"I'm on the ground floor," he said, searching his jacket pockets for his keys.  
  
"Thank God for that." Sherlock took a look at the building, tried not to think about it, and failed. "Is your flatmate gone for long?"  
  
"A month, to Tibet of all places, said he wanted to see the stars from the Himalayas." John stopped with his key in the lock. "How'd you know I had a flatmate?"  
  
"Lucky guess."  
  
"Like you guessed about the rugby?" Sherlock blinked in surprise at the sharp look John was giving him. He was quicker than he looked, and that was a pleasant revelation. "You're going to have to tell me how you do that. Later. Come on in, then."   
  
Inside, the building smelled desperately clean, as if it was trying to prove something. Sherlock tried not to think about the person who kept it that way (older, most probably a woman, likely unemployed, maybe on a pension, first floor flat - wouldn't have paid that much attention to the stairs otherwise) but it was harder  _not_  to now, away from the lights and the music. The only noise was the traffic from the street and the pounding in his ears and John locking the front door, turning his key and sliding a bolt into place.   
  
Sherlock just gave him enough time to turn around, smiling, lifting an arm to indicate which door led to his flat, before pouncing, grabbing John by the shoulder and the back of his head and kissing him, desperate himself. There was a loud  _thunk_  as John's back hit the bit of wall beside his door, and it almost drowned out the click of their teeth when Sherlock pressed forward too hard and too fast.  
  
"Yeah, it's this one," said John when he managed to snake away from Sherlock's mouth. He still had his keys clutched tightly in one hand, and he turned his head to look at the door as if was some sort of sanctuary."Jesus, you're impatient. Let's get inside before Mrs. Turner upstairs sees us and has a nasty turn."   
  
"Mrs. Turner upstairs, eh?" Sherlock licked the soft spot behind John's ear, and John shuddered in his grasp. "An old woman living alone like her, she's not likely to come downstairs when she hears a noise in the middle of the night." He tried to prove his point by pushing John against the wall again, making another solid wooden sound. John groaned this time as Sherlock drove his hips against his groin. "She'll bolt her door, maybe call the police, but only if she gets really scared. Or she'll leave it to her  _strong - young - housemate_."   
  
And he punctuated each of the last three words with a thrust of his hips. John's grip on his keys tightened - that had to hurt now - and the fingers of his free hand dug into the wool of Sherlock's coat.  
  
" _Wait_ ," he gasped. "Jesus, fuck, wait a minute. Let me" - he took a deep breath - "let me get the flat open, okay?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock took a step backward, hands raised in an attitude of surrender. It was better now, quieter in his head, and he watched John fumble with his keys, saw his hands shaking, saw him drop them. They landed with a noisy jangle, and John swore as he bent to pick them up. And he had barely found the right one, had only just put it in the lock when Sherlock launched at him again. John made a soft 'oof' as his stomach hit the painted wood, and Sherlock drove the rest of the breath out of him, pinning him to the door with his body weight (less than John's, but he knew how to use it). 

"Waited long enough," he said, pressing his lips to John's nape. "Couldn't wait any longer."

He couldn't tell whether the strangled sound in John's throat was because of his teeth raking the bit of skin between his jacket collar and his hair or his hand going between his legs to cup his cock. Either was good, and he smiled against John's skin, nose buried in the other man's indeterminately blonde hair, smelling sweat and musk and shampoo. His fingers traced the outline of John's hard cock through his jeans, and John stuttered obscenities as Sherlock added a little more pressure, hips shifting fitfully as though he couldn't quite decide whether to move away from Sherlock's touch or towards it.

John's right hand scrabbled across the wood to find the doorknob, but Sherlock seized him by the wrist before he could manage to turn it, shuffled forward so that the bulge in his own trousers was pressed against the delectable curve of John's arse. That was good, and it got better when he pressed a little harder, widening his stance with his feet spread on either side of John's, and it became positively delightful when John fidgeted in his grasp, going backward and sideways.

"Christ. I didn't know what I was getting into, did I?" he panted, turning his head to look at Sherlock over his shoulder.

In answer, Sherlock kissed him, sloppily, licking at the side of his mouth. It took a fair amount of coordination, doing that and holding on to his wrist and, one-handed, unfastening his belt and fly enough to slip his fingers down his pants while continuing, to put it indelicately, to hump his arse, but he managed it, and the way John shook against him when his fingertips brushed his cock was truly  worth the effort.

John went on swearing, calling on Jesus and the saints and all the little angels in ways that were definitely blasphemous (he did have a filthy mouth, a filthy, clever mouth) as Sherlock touched him, fingers sliding against the hot skin of his cock, smearing pre-ejaculate from the tip down the length of it.  He imagined what the weight of it, the taste of it would be like on his tongue, in his mouth, how John would react to that if he could be taken apart so delightfully with just one hand, and still in his underpants at that.

They didn't make much noise - John was still mindful of his housemates in spite of everything, and Sherlock found that vastly amusing - and there was just the occasional catching of breath, the rustle of cloth on cloth as Sherlock moved close against John, and the faint, faint slide of skin as he stroked John relentlessly. The way the other man moved, artless and involuntary and animal like he had back in the club, was exquisite, and Sherlock had to bite down on John's neck to keep himself grounded, tasting his sweat and his skin, and then even that wasn’t enough and he couldn't have stopped working his hips if he tried, and he wasn't trying, he was so far from trying it was in another universe entirely. He was so intent on the physical sensation, on the rough friction through two pairs of jeans and underwear, that his orgasm took him almost by surprise, a sudden, brief surge of white heat that was very nearly blinding.

John shuddered beneath him before he was quite done, pressing his forehead against the wood. His body tensed, tightened, and he gave a soft groan, long and low, as he came in Sherlock's hand.

"Well," he said as he sagged against the door, after a long while in which they had just leaned against each other and breathed, Sherlock's cheek against John's hair, John's hand resting tentatively on Sherlock's forearm (he hadn't withdrawn his hand yet). "That was embarrassing."

"Ngrh." Sherlock pushed himself off of John, letting go of his wrist, slipping his hand out of his pants, and rolling to the side of the doorframe.  'Embarrassing' didn't quite figure in his vocabulary at the moment, and he carelessly wiped his hand off on the front of his coat.

"Hasn't happened in a while, you know," the other man continued to explain as, holding his trousers up, he finally got the door open. "A rather long while, actually."

"Mmhm."

"Not that it wasn't good. It was. Just. Er. I can make us coffee." John disappeared into the flat, leaving Sherlock to unstick himself from the wall to follow him.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said as he stepped in after John, going somewhat gingerly.

"I hoped you weren't." The corners of John's mouth quirked upward in a grin. "And how the hell did you know about Mrs. Turner?" 


	7. Chapter 7

"It was" - and the word slipped out before Sherlock could stop himself - "obvious." 

"Obvious?" echoed John as he pushed past him to lock the door. "It wouldn't have been obvious to me." 

Explaining anything like that was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. If he'd _wanted_ to do any thinking tonight, he would have banged on the doors of New Scotland Yard shouting embarrassing things about the forensics team until they gave him a cold case just to make him go away. He waved a hand dismissively as John edged past him again, this time on his way further into the dim flat.  

"The stairs - the scent of polish…" He trailed off in mid-step. He had realized, quite abruptly, exactly how uncomfortable it was to walk around with ejaculate congealing in his pants. It was also dawning on him that part of the wonderful pressure and friction that had made him come in his pants in the first place had been caused by a zipper. That was a bit not good. "Oh, hell, what does it _matter_?" he spat, taking on both Mrs. Turner and decency in one fell swoop. And he shed his trousers in the same breath, shoving jeans and underwear to his knees. It wasn't as if he'd meant to keep his clothes on anyway.  

"Oh. Kay." John looked down, looked up, then down again because Sherlock had bent over to deal with his shoes. "Doesn't matter at all. If. If  you put it like that." He cleared his throat, shrugged his jacket off while Sherlock toed off one shoe. And he hesitated for a beat after he'd hung the jacket on one on of the hooks on the wall, and Sherlock would have cursed heavily at his return to hesitant propriety if he hadn't been struggling with a thoroughly stubborn sock himself. John half-turned, hands clenching and unclenching. "I'll just see about that coffee." 

He disappeared to the left of the short hallway, and Sherlock padded after him on bare feet, having kicked the other shoe free, peeled off the other sock, and stepped out of his trousers (he'd find them later, it was a tiny flat, it couldn't be that hard to find his clothes in it).  It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about the coffee  (it could go hang), but he was having trouble finding the words and the hall, short as it was, seemed to be tilting slightly to the right.  The zipper, he ascertained (with some difficulty and self-groping), hadn't done any damage ( _good_ ), but he was a bit of a mess ( _all right_ ).  He weighed the relative merits of using his shirt to clean himself off (he would clean himself off - obviously - and the shirt was going to come off anyway) and not using his shirt to clean himself off (avoidance of potentially complicated acrobatics in a tilted environment, and shirt would stay clean), and arrived at the happy compromise of wiping off with his shirt tails as he made his way to what was nominally the kitchen area of the flat's tiny common room, where John was engaged in a struggle with an elderly electric kettle. 

John looked up, smiled, and Sherlock saw all sorts of danger signs there. Away and apart from the carnal, this was an essentially _nice_ man who was going to make coffee for his house guest. Oh, he was still expecting a good shag - was very much looking forward to it, actually - but he was going to use coffee as an opportunity for conversation, to get to  know Sherlock a little better. Sherlock pressed his lips together, beginning to wonder if his little stunt at the door - bringing John off, taking the edge off the urgency of the situation - had been a mistake.  

Meanwhile John, oblivious, had set out two mugs (one with a rude birthday greeting printed on it and the other, interestingly enough, with the logo of St. Bartholomew's Hospital), and was rummaging through a box of little packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer that looked like they'd been pilfered from cafes all over the city. 

"How d'you want your coffee?" he asked. He'd washed his hands, and his trousers were done up, though he'd left the belt unfastened (Sherlock wondered if he was still a sticky mess between his legs too). "Or I could make you tea, if you like. There's some pretty posh stuff in Mike's cupboard - it's always a joy to raid that." 

"Coffee will do, if you insist on making it," said Sherlock, tugging at the bottom of his shirt. "Black, two sugars--" And he meant to say _please_ because he wasn't wholly bereft of manners, but the word turned into a sharp gasp when he swiped at his crotch a mite too roughly. He was clearly still more sensitive than he realized; the soft cloth, the friction of the neatly-sewn hem had nerve endings firing off again. 

It wasn't bad, though. It was actually quite nice. 

And it was made even better by the metallic clatter followed by the sudden scent of instant coffee and the soft curse that were all indicative of a flustered John dropping his teaspoon. Sherlock, affecting ignorance of that and egged on by the possibility of avoiding a getting-to-know-you coffee break altogether, did it again, with more contact, and a long, low-pitched groan.  

This time John dropped the teaspoon into the St. Bart's mug (a dull _thunk_ of stainless steel on ceramic), and wheeled around, looking ever so slightly harried. "That is very distracting, you know," he said. 

"Mmm," acknowledged Sherlock, and he touched himself with slow deliberation, fingers curled around his cock, stroking from base to head. "Do you want to do something about it?" 

John blinked twice, licked his lips in a way that made Sherlock shiver with anticipation. "Oh, God, yes."


	8. Chapter 8

There was a flurry of motion: John pushing the mugs to one side, swiping the spilled coffee powder off the counter with the side of his hand, Sherlock sliding closer, and John catching him, crowding him against the counter, cupping Sherlock's face and kissing him (Sherlock was amused that John had found the time to pop a breath mint - a Tictac, at a guess).  The way his body was slotted against Sherlock's wasn't exactly comfortable, so Sherlock tried moving forward and angling downward, but that wasn't much better so he went back, pushed himself up onto the counter. That  _was_  better, even if the tiles were cold and he wasn't wearing any pants, and it was difficult to keep his balance between the mugs and microwave; he could hook his legs around John's waist, and that kept him steady, and John seemed to like that too. 

"Coffee was a rubbish idea anyway," he said, barely lifting his lips from Sherlock's.  "I don't know what I was thinking---" 

"Oh, I agree. Absolutely rubbish idea. And pointless." Sherlock turned his head, caught John's hand to lick the coffee off of it, joltingly bitter and warm on his tongue.  

"Hm?" That was a distracted hum from John as he plucked at Sherlock's buttons with his other hand. 

"Pointless," repeated Sherlock, nuzzling John's palm. "You," he went on, "wanted to get to know me better before we fucked. Nice of you, but pointless." And he put his mouth on two of John's fingers and sucked to show that the pointless sentimentality hadn't made him disinterested. 

"You can always hope." John had finished with the buttons, and he eased his hand out of Sherlock's grasp, laid it on his chest instead. He sounded…rueful, maybe even disappointed. He gave a short laugh. "I did want to learn a bit more, and you can't blame me for trying." His fingers found Sherlock's nipple, pinched and tugged. "Like I said, there's not much to go on in a club." 

"Well, all right, maybe it wasn't completely pointless," murmured Sherlock, arching into the touch, hands clutching the back of John's shirt. "I did find out a lot about you." 

"Oh?"

Sherlock winced. He wasn't supposed to be thinking, that was the entire point, but somewhere along the way  _not thinking_  had lapsed into  _thoughtlessness_ , and that and a damnable tendency to show off was threatening to put him in dire straits. "It's not important," he asserted, and he gasped because John had put his mouth on his nipple.

"No, really," said John, giving Sherlock's nipple a final lick before moving his mouth lower, to his stomach, to his navel. "I'm curious."

"It wouldn't make any difference, would it?" snapped Sherlock, and he tried to take the sting out of his words by running his hands through John's short hair, fingers tracing the curve of his skull, exploring his face, seeking his lips. "You're still going to give me head."

"And you're sure about that?" John's response was almost dutiful, lips pressed against Sherlock's fingertips, but his hands were on Sherlock's torso, travelling downward, parting his shirt, sliding against his stomach.

"Positive."

"God, you're a handful," said John, and he made the statement literal rather than metaphorical by grasping Sherlock's prick. Sherlock's head went back at the less-than-gentle tug, banged rather painfully against the kitchen cupboard behind him; his legs tensed, toes curled, and he had to let go of John to grab the kitchen counter.

"So I'm told," he said breathily, fingers slipping on the edge of the tiles. "I've been called worse."

"Really?" The counter was a bit too high for John to reach on his knees, so he was at what looked to Sherlock to be an awkward angle, bent at the knees and the waist, to put his face at crotch level. He wet his lips again, paused. "We can still talk, you know."

" _I_  can. You're going to be otherwise occupied."

"Mhmm." John demonstrated just how he was going to be occupied by licking the head of Sherlock's cock, wet and warm, and the deliciously dirty thought that he was tasting the ejaculate that was still there had Sherlock stirring, even at that slight touch. "So aside from the rugby and Mrs. Turner, what else have you figured out?"

And, damn him, the man sounded earnest  _and_  he'd been paying attention. Sherlock could easily have not answered, could have forgivably retreated into wordless utterings because John was making such excellent use of his lips and tongue, but, damn him, there was that deplorable streak of pride in him, wasn't there? 

He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as John pushed his legs apart and licked up his shaft, slow and deliberate ( _Yes)_. If he had an ounce of sense in him, he would keep his mouth shut, bite his lower lip until it bled if he had to, but he had yet to do a single sensible thing tonight, and any amount of that quality still left in his body vaporized when John put his mouth on him, making what might have been a querying noise deep in his throat that set off what felt very much like fireworks underneath Sherlock's skin.

"You're a doctor." John made a growl of assent that Sherlock felt all the way down to his toes. "A fairly new one, training at Bart's - I go there myself, occasionally, they let me use the labs - and so is your flatmate.   _Nrngh_." That was John tonguing the underside of his cock. Sherlock had momentum now, though, and the words went on tumbling out of his mouth, through the tension building low in his belly, even as he rocked his hips, arched his back, pressed his palm against the counter and his head against the cupboard to wedge himself in place while John sank a little lower and started to use his hands as well, curling fingers around Sherlock's prick, teasing his balls. "He's got a bit more money than you, not that you mind, it's handy having a slightly richer flatmate when the rent is due, I don't blame you there, but you ought to pay him back when he gets home from his trip - the Himalayas, was it? You're thinking of going into military service, and your mates know about it. You're twenty-eight.  And you don't take sugar in your coffee."

And there it was, out in the open, and John, who had stopped what he was doing at the mention of rent, pulled his lips off Sherlock with a soft, liquid  _tock_. He hadn't disentangled himself from Sherlock yet, but he was staring, and even if it was hard to see his face, Sherlock, breathing heavily and tingling all over, could guess at his expression, and at what was coming next. He felt his mouth twist in disappointment. It wasn't that he hadn't ever made considerably less graceful exits before, but he did wish he hadn't been quite so careless when he discarded his clothes: he'd have a hard time finding them in a hurry now. 

John straightened up, hands resting on the tiles on either side of Sherlock's spread thighs, rolled his shoulders, and tilted his head to one side as if to rid himself of a crick in his neck. He wasn't precisely smiling, but it was close. "How on earth did you know that?"


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock blinked. He thought that he could have kissed John for that, realized that he could, in fact, kiss John, that kissing John would be acceptable and fitting and even desirable, and so he did, sliding off of the  countertop so that he could do it better. John stumbled a bit, taken by surprise, and he had to grab Sherlock's shoulders to keep them from ending up on the floor. They teetered haphazardly in that small space, right, left, then right again until the back of John's legs collided with the table ( _moderately sturdy, looked like it functioned more as a desk than as a surface for eating, tempting_ ). 

"If you're trying to distract me again," John panted when Sherlock finally let him go, "I can't say I don't like it - oh _God_ " - that was Sherlock ducking down to nip-lick-suck at his jawline - "not complaining, I'm not complaining at all, but I was trying to ask—" 

"How I knew." Sherlock licked the spot behind John's ear. He'd liked that when they were out in the hallway, and he liked it now, if the sound he made was anything to go by. "I didn't _know_. I _saw_." 

"Wha—?" The rest of John's question was lost as Sherlock raked teeth over sensitive skin. 

"You heard me." Sherlock felt himself smiling. He couldn't help it. He had been so sure that John was going to kick him out, and he was _wrong_ , and it was wonderful to be wrong, at least in that respect. "You really want to know?" And he gave John another quick kiss, just because he could. 

"Well, yes," said John, pressed against the table and leaning back so that he didn't have to talk with a mouthful of Sherlock. "Really. Definitely. It's a brilliant trick. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you must have been stalking me, but you can't - you can't have been." 

"It's not a _trick_." Sherlock said the word with some distaste. That was what some of the other students at university called it - idiots, the lot of them.  "I simply observed, and made deductions from what I saw." 

"Sounds like a trick to me." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll think it utterly simple once I explain it," he said, and John fixed him with a pointed look, his hands unmoving on Sherlock's waist. "All right. _Doctor, training at Bart's_." He inhaled sharply, and went on, "You have a keychain and mug with the St. Bartholomew's Hospital logo, and you're using them both, which makes it more likely that you're working or training there yourself, rather than having a friend or relative or acquaintance fob them off on you - clearly you're fond of the place, you can't possibly be that hard up for mugs and keychains. Now, there are all sorts of jobs at a hospital, you could be anything from an x-ray technician to a janitor, but" - he reached around John to rap his knuckles on one of the volumes on the table, something to do with obstetrics - "you've got medical books lying around, well-thumbed, and with that set, you're more likely a doctor than a nurse." 

"That's—" 

"Your flatmate, then. I figured that you must have one, seeing how you were with your money: a flatshare's about the most economical way to live in London. And I deduced that he must be away, since you didn't hesitate to bring me home and made no fuss about waking the flatmate. You're considerate, you warned me of the tenant upstairs, you _would_ have said something if your flatmate was here." It occurred to Sherlock that he was nearly naked while John still had all of his clothes on, and that was grievously unfair. He tugged at the waist of John's jeans. "In my experience, it's the wealthier flatmate who goes on holidays abroad. You also said that he has 'posh stuff' in his cupboard, and there are two copies of some of the books, his are the newer editions while a lot of yours are second-hand. From there it isn't too great a leap to assume that you owe him money, though that IOU you stuck on the fridge was a bit of a giveaway, and rent's the most likely thing that you'd owe him money for. I say that you should pay him back on his return because someone who's been on holiday has usually depleted his funds considerably, and settling your debt when he gets back will ensure that you stay in his good graces, and that'll smooth the way if you ever need to borrow money again." 

John made a small sound that might have been assent, shoved Sherlock back a little to give his hands space to work - though in Sherlock's opinion, twenty fingers working to undo one man's zip was more of a hindrance than a help. 

"You're not in the military yet," Sherlock continued, swatting John's hands out of the way and - finally! - succeeding to undo what felt like far too many fastenings. "Your hair and posture are all wrong _and_ you haven't finished your medical training, but the second mug you brought out has a jibe about the army on it, obviously a gift - personalized, since it has your name and age as well. That tells me you're flirting with the idea of military service, and that you've run the idea by your friends, at least half-seriously. At any rate, they know enough about your intentions to make a joke. It _could_ be a joke about your fondness for a video game of some sort, but that seems unlikely since you don't have any related paraphernalia here." He yanked on John's trousers, bringing them and his underpants to his thighs. 

"The mug's new - hardly used too, hideous thing, my guess is that you're only keeping it firstly because you don't want to cause offense and it's too new for you to have lost or broken it, and secondly because it's always handy to have a spare mug in case of company - so you turned 28 on your last birthday." Sherlock wasn't sure how much of that was actually coherent. John had pulled him close, and the sensation of skin on skin - oh, there _needed_ to be more of that. "I learned that you don't take sugar because you took two packets of sugar out of that little box when I told you how I took my coffee, but you took none for yourself. You didn't get any creamer either, but that could be because you've got milk in the fridge." 

"No milk," murmured John. His face was tucked against Sherlock's neck, and he was rutting against Sherlock's thigh, slowly as if doing that and listening to Sherlock required all of his concentration. He wasn't quite hard yet, but he seemed to be intent on getting there. "But only cause I haven't done the shopping this week." 

"Mmm." Sherlock curled his fingers around  John's arm (he had _nice_ arms), rubbing his thumb back and forth against the cloth of his sleeve. "The exhaustive cleanliness outside told me about Mrs. Turner, and that she lives upstairs because that cleanliness goes on up to the first floor. She wouldn't have time to clean like that if she was employed, and she wouldn't bother to clean like that if she was out of a job in this economy, so she's most likely retired, on a pension." 

"I told you about her," John reminded him, breathless. 

"That too. But that counts, and you didn't tell me everything," Sherlock smirked. "And the rugby. Your build, you and your friends - different body types, but the same kind of, oh, physique, muscle development, you know what I mean. Suggests that you all went through the same sort of physical training. There's a certain look that sports teams have, and you'd look different if you did swimming or football, for example, so rugby it is. Though you can also tell at a glance that it's been a couple of years since most of you played seriously. Maybe some of you meet on weekends, but that's about it. See?" He tilted John's chin up so that he could meet his eyes. "Simple. Obvious." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly talk - actually mostly deductions (I hope they're passable) - so sorry. I ran out of steam halfway through what I planned on making a giant chapter, and it felt like I was digging at it with a popsicle stick. But! The fic is moving!
> 
> *
> 
> EDIT: [Kangeiko](http://kangeiko.tumblr.com) organized a [Balkan Floods Relief Fandom Auction](http://kangeiko.tumblr.com/post/86736506738/balkan-floods-relief-fandom-auction), and it would be great if you could go check it out on [Dreamwidth](http://balkanfloodsrelief.dreamwidth.org/) or [Livejournal](http://balkanfloods.livejournal.com/) \- there are quite a few goodies up for grabs. I'm offering fic for this, and [you can bid on this LJ post here](http://balkanfloods.livejournal.com/1242.html).


	10. Chapter 10

John regarded him for several long seconds, blue eyes slightly narrowed and thin lips parted in an expression that Sherlock didn't trust himself to interpret. He tried to think about where he'd tossed his pants instead, since that information might become useful in a matter of seconds if he turned out to be grossly mistaken about how much John actually wanted to hear - people did that, they said they wanted to know things, when in fact, it wasn't what they wanted at all - but John made several false starts, his mouth moving around half-formed words, and it was impossible for Sherlock to concentrate on anything else.

"That," he said at last, "was brilliant."

"You really think so?" Relief washed over Sherlock, highlighting the other, more heated feelings dancing along his nerves. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he touched his lips to John's again, kissing him recklessly, joyously, and with liberal amounts of tongue.

"Yes, it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary," John repeated, getting the words out between kisses, clutching at Sherlock's hips as if that would prove that he meant it.

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock's fingers skittered down to John's elbows, to his sides, to where his shirt just covered what was, Sherlock thought, a very nice bum indeed.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock grinned, trailing one finger down the cleft of John's arse, probing delicately until he found the tight little pucker of his entrance. "Or worse, depending on who they are and how angry they get."

John rocked back into his touch. "They don't ask you to fuck them, then? Oh _God_. They don't know what they're missing."

"Are you asking?" Sherlock increased the pressure, just a little, but that was enough to make John squeeze his eyes shut and bite back a moan.

"Please. Jesus, _yes_."

That was a definite step up from being told to fuck off or to go fuck himself, and Sherlock kissed John again, swiping his tongue over his lower lip (at any other time, he might have worried that he was enjoying this business of kissing John far too much for comfort, but this wasn't any other time, this was _now_ ). "Turn around," he ordered.

John blinked at him ( _Here? Really?_ ) but he let himself be manhandled into position by an impatient Sherlock, bending over the table when he put a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed until he was resting on his forearms, textbooks and papers haphazardly shoved out of the way. He even spread his legs as well as he could with his pants still around his thighs.

Sherlock put a finger in his mouth (a different finger, because he was in that strange state of mind in which he would enthusiastically grope, finger, lick, and bite arse but would not put his mouth on anything that had been in the vicinity of someone else's bottom), swirled his tongue around it, and, without preamble, he pushed the tip of it into John's arsehole.

John hissed and his head jerked up off the table. "Ow. Sorry. Bit dry."

He made to get up, but the thought of a delay was intolerable, even for something so necessary as lube, and Sherlock pushed him back down, pinning his shoulders in place. "Wait," he growled, digging in with the heels of his palms. With his erection pressing against John's right arse cheek, he felt that he didn't have to expound on the subjects of urgency, and need, and _need now_.

John swore softly, shifted his arms so that his chest was flush against the table. Sherlock thrust once, and moved back before he gave into the temptation to do more than that. He could hear his pulse ( _elevated_ ) thudding in his ears, feel it filling his head, and he was almost sure that he could _see_ it as he turned unsteadily and threw open cupboard after cupboard in the tiny kitchenette ( _lucky thing it was so small_ ), scanning the contents, and... _aha_.

John looked over his shoulder at the clink of glass, and groaned when he saw the bottle Sherlock was holding. "Oh no. No, that's Mike's, it's _Greek_ , it's expensive stuff, he went on and on about it, I've got proper lube in the bedroom-"

"Good. We can use it later." Sherlock unscrewed the cap as he took the three steps back to the table, and tipped a generous amount of olive oil onto his palm. His hands were shaking - not surprising, but damnably frustrating - so it spilled, spattering John's shirt and the small of his back. Muttering darkly, Sherlock had another go at it, carefully this time, and succeeded in slicking his fingers, his cock, and, quite by accident, the bit of floor between his feet. A sloppy job, but it was enough to go on, and he even took the trouble of teasing John, rubbing at his sphincter with light, circling touches, before pushing his fingertip in again. "Better?" he asked, working it in with what was, in his considered opinion, the sort of patience that would have done credit to the passing of geological epochs.

John's answering groan was an altogether satisfactory sound this time around. "Much," he said, and the word was drawn out and muffled against his sleeve. "God, yes - you've got gorgeous hands, you know that? - sweet Jesus, a bit more, would you, and up - _ah_!"

His hips went back, and he keened, moaned, gasping for _more, fuck, more_ , responding beautifully, just as Sherlock hoped he would. It was _easy_ to give him more - another touch, another finger, increasing the stretch, all the while stroking his back, his flanks, smearing the spilled oil over his skin (Sherlock particularly enjoyed the sheen of it on John's left buttock). What was not quite so easy was getting his cock in: there was rather more swearing and fidgeting, some hasty, half-worded negotiations, and another palmful of oil, and Sherlock was very nearly frantic by the time he put the bottle back on the table, unintentionally placing it in John's line of sight. He was taken aback when the man made an abrupt sound, which he at first thought to be a sob that had everything to do with the head of Sherlock's penis not quite breaching his body, but, as it turned out, was actually a laugh that had to do with something else entirely.

"Extra-virgin," John chortled helplessly. "And Greek too. Christ on a fucking bike, that's irony isn't it?"

Sherlock let out an amused huff in spite of himself. "Some figure of speech, anyway," he acknowledged, and he thrust his length into John.

There was a slice of time, possibly measurable in microseconds, where everything was still, Sherlock fully seated inside John, and John stretched around him. And Sherlock took that moment, stowed it in his mind palace (careful to mark it for deletion at some later date if necessary), and shattered it by snapping his hips back and then ramming into John. And he did it once more. And again.

He ought to have gone slower, perhaps, and maybe he should have been more careful, mindful of things like tearing and bruising and the other person's discomfort. In the part of his brain that was not wholly taken over by sex, Sherlock wanted to think that he would have stopped, slowed if John asked, but John, knuckles white as he pressed his fists onto the table and alternating between clenched teeth and open-mouthed panting, did _not_ ask. If anything, he moved his hips so that he met Sherlock on almost every stroke, never mind the fact that he was being fucked so hard that the table's edge had to be pressing into his belly and the table itself was being jostled forward with every forceful thrust.

Sherlock tried to hold on, grasping the edge of the table, digging his fingers into John's narrow hips. His unbuttoned shirt was starting to slip off of his shoulders, trapping his arms, getting in the way, so he tore it off, tossed it aside before returning his hands to John's body, pushing his shirt up his back, rubbing oil and sweat into his skin.

One of the textbooks fell off the table with a loud, solid thump. Sherlock felt John start, saw his eyes snap open, but, thankfully, he made no move to go after it. Oddly enough, being made aware of something other than the give and texture of John's inner walls around his cock brought Sherlock out of himself, throwing the situation into painfully vivid relief. He was stark naked and fucking a stranger in a strange flat, though John wasn't that much of a stranger anymore, was he, now that he'd deduced half his life, and he hadn't minded that Sherlock had done it, and that was new and strange and incredible, hell, John _felt_ incredible, hot and tight, and Sherlock was taking him, he didn't think he'd ever appreciated the word before, taking John, taking his pleasure, taking John apart...

The world reeled as he came, tension and heat leaving his body in short, sharp pulses. When he was done, he was bent over John, hands planted on the table next to his (the difference in their size struck him then, making one corner of his mouth quirk upwards in a half-grin) to keep him from fully collapsing on the smaller man. His softening cock slipped out, along with a warm trickle of oil and semen, and John slumped bonelessly onto the wooden surface.

Sherlock stepped back (it was either that or fall forward), feet unsteady until he somehow found the kitchen counter and propped himself up against that. He felt _bright_ , fizzing and chemical, like someone had turned on a sodium light bulb in his chest. With vague surprise, he realized that he was not quite sated yet - far from it, in fact. Satisfied, certainly, but rather as though he'd only just begun to scratch at a difficult itch and found it _amazing_ , and he needed to claw at it, needed more if he had to dig beneath his skin to get it. No great shock that, given what was swirling around in his blood stream (little chemical compounds of questionable legality, which would make life very difficult for him if, for some reason, he was made to pee in a jar), though he was starting to wonder, in a vague and distant way, when the stuff would wear off.

John took a little while longer to get his bearings. He pushed himself up with visible effort, and turned to beam dazedly at Sherlock, making a valiant attempt to move towards him. This was foiled by the combined effects of the trousers still bunched about his knees and the spilled oil at his feet, and John crashed to the floor, somehow contriving to avoid the hard edges and sharp corners of the table. A startled look flit across his face, but it was quickly replaced by amusement ( _of all things!_ ) and then by actual laughter. He looked rumpled and delicious like that, if rather different from how he'd appeared in the club - really, Sherlock had expected to be fucked until he was unable to tell which way was up. Had been looking forward to it, actually, but there would be time for that later. Right now, it was quite enough to look at John, who was, yes, delicious and delectable and...soft. _Oh._ Sherlock knelt down next to him to take a closer look. Yes, definitely soft, with the foreskin covering the head of his prick completely. And it wasn't because he'd come. Sherlock rather thought that he'd have noticed if he'd come.

"Oh," he said, and the word sounded small and flat, even to his ears.

"No, it's OK," protested John, sounding apologetic as he struggled to sit up. "I liked it, I really did, just - I mean, I enjoyed it, I asked you for it, didn't I, and I don't think it's been twenty minutes since you got me off outside, refractory period and all that, just give me a min-"

And the rest of his words were lost as Sherlock pounced.


End file.
